


Scribo, Scribere, Scripsi, Scriptus

by Adira_Tyree



Category: Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Character Study, Fallout Kink Meme, Gen, Latin, Poetry, Weirdness, Writing, kind of?, not exactly, not sure how to tag this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-16
Updated: 2014-08-16
Packaged: 2018-02-13 09:15:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2145249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adira_Tyree/pseuds/Adira_Tyree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[Kink Meme fill for the prompt: Any poetry based off Fallout.]<br/>About writing Vulpes. 3:00am poetry. It may be pretty weird.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scribo, Scribere, Scripsi, Scriptus

**Author's Note:**

> Here's a link to the original prompt (and other folk's fills!) on the Meme: [[x](http://falloutkinkmeme.livejournal.com/5646.html?thread=12371214#t12371214)]

My hands caress the keys like silk,

Like it is your skin, your bone I move.

Each depression another scar,

Each rise your pulse beating with fervor.

And yet I am not the one who is in control.

I am just the one who performs the task.

To write you is to be your slave.

I feel the collar digging into my neck,

Biting and itching as each word

Claws its way from my throat,

To my hands, the keys, each page.

You cling to life through me, yet,

I am the one whose words flow forth.

I am the one who sets the scenes.

There are no secrets between us,

No, here all is bared to one another.

I hear all your whispered words,

_Degenerate whore, dissolute, profligate,_

But even as they are spat with hate

They beg, beg, beg that I continue,

Beg that I make you, break you,

Take you each and every place I want.

There is no balance, no harmony,

Just take, and give, and take again,

And we’ve forgotten who is who,

Who is taking and who is giving

And why, why we are so caught up

In all this hateful gnashing of words.

You hate my adoration of you,

That it is your name I would choose

To cry out, if I had my choice of all.

If I could do nothing,

Nothing more than break you,

You would still have more.

You would coax and tease and pull,

Anything, for more. Because you,

You, you are always looking for more.

Nothing satisfies you anymore;

Broken, near submissive to your

Need to feel something far too real

That you’ll take pain over pleasure.

_Gods above, it’s true_ and you wonder _why_

But it takes no guesses to find,

The obvious is only hidden to you.

You’re a fox with paws all broken,

Eyes muddy, nose burned-out

And you couldn’t see this truth

Even if it was right in your face –

Which, to be truthful, it is.

So you bite and you scratch and you

Claw and I hate it almost as much as you do

But neither of us is stopping yet

So you push harder and I write later;

Who needs sleep when you,

Your voice, Gods, your voice is

Whispering in my ear what you’d do.

Writing you makes me question everything.

Everything. The things I would do,

To you, for you, against and in favor of you;

I have seen the vilest of thoughts

Flowing soft as your hands guided me,

And I have done nothing, nothing

But willingly obey and smile.

Is that pride I sense? Is it yours

Or is it mine? I can’t tell anymore

Where you stop and I begin or if

It’s supposed to be the other way around

Or if it even matters. Do I care?

I know you do. The rage, quiet as

You wait, praying, again,

_Mars above, let it be over soon_ you beg.

And you think that I don’t hear,

But there is no thought nor idea that

Doesn’t go from you to me.

And I’m not sorry.

I wish I was sorry for what you

Have done to me, no, wait,

What I have done to you, no,

Both. Because we have become one,

You and I, inseparable,

And though it is vile and I can feel

Your rotten core decaying mine?

I strike. I do your bidding.

And I love it.

To write you is to be your slave,

Willingly.

**Author's Note:**

> Not really sure what there is to say about this one. It just sort of happened and then kept happening. I don't often write poetry, because when I do? Things like this happen and they make me go "uh. well. that was. uh. weird."
> 
> I get very close with my characters. Not all of them, just the ones I really find interesting. Not much to do with how much I like them or dislike them. I only feel like I can really write a character well when I don't have to think of what they're going to say. I write something at them, they respond. It honestly scares the crap out of me, but I've been told it's a good thing. So. There you have it. Call me crazy if you'd like, I won't mind. =]
> 
> As one final side note: rereading this, it sounds oddly sexual compared to my brain-state when I wrote it. It's not really intended to be, but hey: you're the reader. Take from it what you want.


End file.
